You Turn And Someone Betrays You
by Citizen Chauvelin
Summary: Musical fic. Armand is forced to work for the Republic to save his life and Marguerite's.
1. Just See How Virtue Repays You

**Ok. Here's the deal with this one. I had this great ending for this in which we basically have this major conflict between Chauvelin and Armand, Marguerite eventually shows up, confrontation between her and Chauvie, and Armand ends up being killed. Didn't happen that way. However, I did write it, so if anyone would like to read that one,drop me a line and I'll post it or something. With this one, I had this random idea halfway through for a pretty cool ending. And when I wrote it, it didn't turn out that way. Instead, it turned into something that is most definately not the one-shot that I intended it to be. I can and will continue this if you guys like it enough, but as it stands, it's a one-shot. Oh, and reviews are always welcome! As always, this is musical based, because, though I love the book very much, Chauvelin just isn't as smexy as he should be. Also, I'm not sure I like the title. If anyone thinks of something that's better, let me know. If I like it, I'll change it and give you credit. Cuz this one kinda sucks...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this. Not even Andre. He belongs to NightShadow131. And the rest still isn't mine. Onward.**

**You Turn And Someone Betrays You**

**Chapter 1: Just See How Virtue Repays You**

Another fist drove into his gut, and were it not for the brute of a soldier holding him up, Armand St. Just would have collapsed. He whimpered in pain as his lungs seized up and a few feeble coughs caused the ground at his feet to be splattered with blood.

And still he would not speak.

Crying out in agitation and fury, Chauvelin gripped the man's shoulders and drove his knee into the young Frenchman's badly beaten body. The agent dropped his head to Armand's shoulder and breathed deeply, trying to regain any composure that he had when he began to beat him; all things aside, he was exhausted. He had not eaten, had not slept, had not rested for a moment since he had returned from England; he had merely grabbed his young assistant by the arm, and came straight to the prison, had not stopped beating the young St. Just since he arrived.

And still he would not relinquish the name of his leader.

Armand stirred slightly, Chauvelin drove his fist into the boy's gut again, and with a whimper of pain, Armand fell still a second time.

"Who is he, Armand?" Silence, but he expected no more. The boy had done nothing but answer in this manner as soon as he lost the ability to verbally deny him the answer he sought. Such a waste of valor; he could have done well in the Republic. With renewed fury, Chauvelin returned to striking the bloody and broken boy.

Out in the hallway, Andre Madeline winced as he heard his leader begin thrashing the member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel yet again. Chauvelin usually was not so hard on prisoners; he had been at this particular boy for well over three quarters of an hour now, and Andre was quite certain that the Frenchman would not last much longer. But perhaps this is what Chauvelin wanted, he did not know. He did not have the courage to question the man, especially not when he was like this. But still, the boy could _die_…

Gathering up the little courage he had, Andre tentatively rapped his knuckles against the open door, careful to avoid looking inside the cell. Though Chauvelin may have been indifferent to violence, Andre quite disliked it, and it often made him physically ill to look upon it. "Citizen, you have not eaten yet, and you must be tired…"

"Andre, would you like to be next?"

"No! No sir, I just…"

Chauvelin fired a falcon-like glare at his pale young assistant and the boy shrank back as his eyes met that stare. "Then I recommend that you be silent." Waiving his hand at the guard who held Armand, he slowly walked to stand over the weakly breathing boy as the guard dropped him. As the guard left the cell, Chauvelin dug the toe of his shoe into Armand's side, causing him to stir slightly, but the boy could hardly move anymore.

"Close the door, Andre," Chauvelin whispered in a cold, cruel voice that seemed to chill the already biting air, and without any question, Andre closed the door as quietly as possible.

As soon as he heard the door close, Chauvelin knelt beside the softly gasping boy and ran his hand through the unkempt brown hair. "No matter what I do to you, you won't tell me the name of the Pimpernel, will you?" Chauvelin's hand tightened around Armand's hair and the boy cried in agony as his head was yanked off the ground. "Both you and your sister are so damned stubborn! Neither of you can see what's best for you!"

Casting St. Just's head back to the ground, Chauvelin stood and swiftly kicked the beaten boy in the ribs before leaning against a wall and staring in disgust at the broken, bleeding man on the floor.

Breathing as shallow as he could manage – it hurt to inhale – Armand tried to pull himself together, refusing to lose dignity, to look weak in the face of his vile, hated enemy. Grimacing in pain and biting his tongue to keep from crying out, Armand managed to push himself up and sit, but the excursion and the pain caused a wave of nausea to pass over him. Suddenly dizzy, in intense pain, and quite ill, Armand fell back and gazed helplessly at the ceiling, avoiding the pale yellow and cruelly amused stare of the agent.

"You have failed me even as a bargaining chip, Armand," Chauvelin droned quietly, his eyes suddenly softening with a hint of regret. A moment of silence passed between the two before the agent whispered, "Your sister is a beautiful woman."

That caught his attention, and Armand's sharpbrown eyes met the agent's. Picking up on the sudden fire in the broken man's eyes, and with a twinge of a cruel smile playing across his face, Chauvelin smoothly drawled, "You know, she and I were lovers once."

The nausea returned. Those furious brown eyes met the distant gold ones, and through clenched teeth managed to choke, "Liar!"

Chauvelin's entire demeanor dropped all pretense of amusement and became cold and hard again. "Don't be an idiot, St. Just. Did you really believe her to be a virgin until her wedding day?"

"You defiled her…"

"Don't you dare accuse me of that! She loved me, Armand. She wanted it as much as I."

"Did you?"

"What?"

Armand gasped, coughed, tasted blood, and fell silent. His eyes met Chauvelin's again, patiently waiting for him to recover. Carefully breathing as deeply as his body would allow, he softly asked, "Did you love her?" Silence…

Chauvelin gazed down at the ground, his foot tracing one of the stones in the floor. "No. I didn't then. She was an entertaining young thing, beautiful, intelligent, quite the good lover, but little more than that. A plaything. And obsession, really." Chauvelin's eyes filled with regret met the pain filled eyes of Armand, and softly, almost apologetically, said, "But I love her now, if that is any consolation." Suddenly, the golden eyes glinted with pain, hatred, violence, and they narrowed dangerously. "But she doesn't want me anymore. I tried with all my heart to bring her back to me, but she refused. I even told her about _you_, and she still denies me! And you, my dear Armand, are going to pay for it."

Armand tried to push himself up, but his arm gave way in a rush of pain and he fell back to the ground as his chest burned under the crushing force of Chauvelin's heel. His breathing suddenly became heavy and shallow, his vision began to tunnel, and his entire body was becoming numb as he slipped into unconsciousness, but he was quickly pulled back to the room as his body was crushed against the wall, the fierce agent pinning him by his shoulders.

The yellow eyes glinted off the blood that ran down the body of the young man he held and, consumed in lust – for vengeance, for blood, for _Marguerite_ – he slowly licked the blood that ran from his collarbone and up to his jaw.

Armand woke up, gagged, his entire body jolted in revulsion and fear; the passion for his sister was making the agent lose control, and he was in dire need of an outlet. Armand whimpered in pain and the dreaded anticipation of what Chauvelin may do to him and he felt tears slide down his face; Armand could not say whether it was power or flesh that Chauvelin lusted after, but all he could do was close his eyes and hope the pain would be over quickly.

Chauvelin leaned his forehead against the quivering boy's; aim his revenge against Marguerite at the man he knew she treasured most. "Your sister took everything from me, Armand. I am sure you didn't know that, but she did. It seems only appropriate that I take you, her darling brother, away from her."

The life returned to Armand's eyes as the agent's filled with passion, and he struggled with all his remaining strength against the iron grip that held him. His feeble resistance was futile, and, in a last hope of rendering himself free, he spit a mixture of blood and saliva into the agent's face.

Chauvelin's grip loosened for a second in shock; but it was only a second, not nearly long enough for Armand to get away. Digging his fingers into the boy's shoulder again – much harder this time, and drawing blood from where his nails split the skin – he leaned close to the boy, pressing his body against the broken and bloodied prisoner, and with painstaking slowness, licked from Armand's chin and up to the corner of his eye.

Armand St Just, loyal and proud member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, finally broke, wept, cried for mercy that he knew he would not receive. The inflexible harshness of Chauvelin's body brought him to the clarification that Chauvelin lusted for the power dynamic he held over him; the undeniable authority and supremacy over his captive was what the agent wanted, nothing more. He wanted him broken in every aspect that the young St. Just could possibly be destroyed in. And somehow this was much worse than anything Armand previously imagined; he was going to die.

Grinning maliciously with a victorious satisfaction at the reaction he received from the boy, Chauvelin pulled the boy away from the wall, and in a fluid moment, made the man's back rest against his chest. Snaking one hand around his waist and another across his chest to keep him place, one hand clamped on to Armand's hip, earning him a cry of pain from the man he held; it was more than likely that he had already broken something in that general area.

All previous malice dropped from the agent's face, and for a moment, he nuzzled the weeping boy's neck before whispering in his ear, "I am going to kill you, St. Just. And being that you have no possible chance of escape, I am going to take my time. Your sister has made me suffer like you have never known. What better way to exact revenge against her then by removing her brother from this world?" Digging his hand into a wound Armand had on his shoulder, Chauvelin threw the boy against the wall and watched stoically as he hit the floor and lay still.

Slowly walking to the motionless Frenchman, the agent slipped his foot under him and flipped him on to his back, his keen eyes picking up the slight rise and fall of the traitor's chest. Still alive. Good.

Chauvelin quickly opened up the door and looked about the area. No one in sight. Sighing in irritation, the agent took a few deep breaths, ran his hand through his tussled ebony hair, and harshly snapped, "Andre!"

The entire prison was silent except for the quiet whimpering of Armand as he regained consciousness, and then the swift, frantic footfalls of Chauvelin's assistant Andre could be heard, and within moments, the pale, frightened boy stood panting before Chauvelin. "Sir?"

"Andre, fetch me my sword."

Noticing the soft moaning, Andre looked around his superior and stared in shock at the broken, weeping man on the floor in the cell, a small pool of blood now starting to form underneath the prisoner. Andre gaped, and could not look away. The poor man! Even if he was a prisoner and one of the most sought after enemy of the Republic…

"Andre! My sword!"

"Sir! Yes sir! It's just that he…he…"

Chauvelin sighed in annoyance. For the life of him, he could not understand why he, Agent Chauvelin, ended getting stuck with such a timid boy as his assistant.. Bitter irony seemed to have a certain attraction to the agent, as every aspect of his life seemed to be tragically ironic. "Yes, Andre, do try to articulate."

"Sir, he's bleeding…"

"Yes. And?"

"I am quite certain, sir, that his arm should not be able to bend that way…"

"Oh? And what do you suggest we do, Andre?"

"I, um, would imagine that getting a doctor is in order…"

"Ah. You see, Andre, this is why I do the thinking."

"Yes sir, I understand, but…"

"_My sword, ANDRE!"_

"Yes sir! Right away, sir!" Chauvelin ran his hand over his face in agitation as the small, terrified boy went running off to retrieve his weapon. A pity that he could not simply do away with young Andre; unfortunately for him, he had developed a liking for the timid child. Unlike him to attach himself to another, but his entire life seemed a list of impossibilities.

Armand began crying loudly, begging for mercy, praying, hoping for life but wishing for death…it was infuriating. Though he loved to see this boy broken, crying for his life at his feet, there was something extraordinarily irritating about the spectacle. This boy had use, had _value_, to not only his Marguerite, but to his Pimpernel as well. The idea of destroying this asset, no matter how much he would enjoy it, truly annoyed him. His eyes narrowing at the bleeding, screaming boy as Andre quickly returned with his sword, he formulated a plan of exactly what to do with Armand St. Just.

"Sir, your sword…"

"Yes, thank you, Andre." Armand began screaming louder, and Chauvelin growled in irritation; no doubt the boy knew he was to die, knew that torture would accompany him in his last moments. A futile, last burst of strength as he lay there awaiting his execution; pitiful last display of life and fighting spirit.

"Chauvelin, I beg of you! Kill me quickly, please, don't let me suffer anymore!"

"What, and ruin my fun? What is the point of killing you if I do not enjoy every last moment of your extended agony? No, Armand, you will suffer." Chauvelin drew his sword as he walked into the room, slamming the door in his shivering assistant's face.

The agent slowly paced before the writhing St. Just, an almost sympathetic gleam in his eyes. He carefully put the tip of his sword on Armand's chest right above his tattered shirt and slid it down, removing the remainder of Armand's shirt and leaving a shallow, bleeding cut down his chest.

Armand wept harder, the anticipation making his nerves much more keen, the very air making his body react violently to the pain that had been inflicted on him. "God, protect Marguerite! I'm sorry I have failed to defend her."

Chauvelin rolled his eyes at the young man's pleas, and pressed the tip of his sword into Armand's chest, the blade stopping shallow just as it entered and hit bone. Kneeling beside the gasping traitor, keeping the blade in place on his chest, Chauvelin leaned in close to the quivering man. "I can still save you, Armand. You are in bad condition, and you will die if I leave you, but if you act fast, I can save your life. Think about it, Armand; you can see your sister again."

Armand's heart seized up, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Gasping slightly, trying to formulate a response, the young St. Just sputtered, coughed up blood, and realized it was useless to try to speak. Shifting slightly, he cried out in pain as the point of the blade dug through the bone of his chest as he moved. He could live…

Eyes softening, Chauvelin removed his sword and cast it aside; he had seen the hope, the submission in Armand's eyes, and the boy needed no more pain, only the promise of living to see tomorrow. Sitting beside the boy, Chauvelin took the trembling, softly weeping boy in his arms and held his head to his chest, gently running his hand through the brown hair. "Come now, Armand. I can save your life. Think of how much harm would come to lovely Marguerite if you are not there to defend her. She needs you, Armand."

Armand gasped, tried to keep his composure, but felt tears run down his face again. Chauvelin could save him, could protect Marguerite…no, he needed to live. He had always been there for his sister, and even though she now had Percy, she was so heartbroken to see him leave for France, made him promise he would come home to her safely…

He needed to keep this promise. And oh, how smoothly Chauvelin spoke! The agent was suddenly so gentle, so safe, with the promise of safety for Marguerite and the promise of life for himself. The agent softly caressed the man's beaten and bloody back and shoulders and Armand shivered; he felt himself relax in the agent's arms and his breathing became even as some of the pain lifted. God it was so soothing…

"Marguerite will not be harmed?"

"Of course not. You yourself will be safe."

"What must I do?"

"Work for me, Armand."

Armand tensed; that was no good. It was when he realized that the sudden relaxation was the onset of death that he tensed, quivered in the thought of betraying his promise to his beloved sister. And without him, what did she have? Percy would not touch her, would pay her no heed; she needed him. "If I don't?"

"A pity for both you and your sister. You will be dead, and I can assure you, Marguerite _will_ find herself tied to a similar fate as her brother." Chauvelin's arms tightened around the boy, gently ran his hand through his hair and across the nasty cuts on his face and neck. "I do not need you, Armand. I am merely trying to help you."

"Why?"

Chauvelin smiled sympathetically, if never honest in his life, then he was honest now. "I have lost too much from broken promises, Armand. I do not wish to see that happen to you. I see too much of myself in you to allow you to die a traitor. Let me help you, Armand."

Armand was silent, buried his head against the agent's chest and wept. "And all I need do is work for you?"

"That is all, Armand."

"And no harm shall come to Marguerite?"

"None. I shall see to that. All you need do is agree to help me."

Armand looked up at Chauvelin with grateful, tear-filled eyes. "Help me, Chauvelin."

Chauvelin smiled slightly at the weak man he held and ran his thumb across the trembling man's cheek, and softly called for his assistant. The door creaked open, and Andre timidly peeked into the room. "Sir?"

"Andre, fetch this man a doctor."

"But sir! You said earlier…

"Now, Andre. Hurry."

"Yes sir!"

As Andre ran off, Armand slowly slipped into unconsciousness. Chauvelin smiled softly at the young Frenchman, the cruel malice creeping back into his face. Gently stroking Armand's hair out of his face, he ran his fingers over the delicate features of his face, the unconscious boy softly groaning in slight pain and the soothing feeling of Chauvelin's touch.

"Soon, you are going to deliver the Pimpernel right into my hands, Agent St, Just." Grinning in victory, Chauvelin clutched the boy closer to him and waited for the doctor to restore his most valuable asset to the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel.


	2. We All Are Caught In The Middle

**Alright, by popular demand, I have made this meant to be one shot into an actuall story. My beta source says this is one of my best works yet. And thus, happily I put this up. Please, reviews are much appreciated, and I think for once, I have created a story that is perfectly safe for Percy/Margot lovers. Good for me. Review! Gah!**

**You Turn and Someone Betrays You**

**Chapter 2: We All Are Caught In The Middle**

Chauvelin closed the door behind him, stretched, and went to the cafe to get something to eat, his young assistant trailing behind him. They had managed to get Armand stable enough to move him to a climate more conducive to the doctor's treatment and the young St. Just's recovery. It would be a while yet before the boy would be strong enough to actually be of use to the agent, but he was more than willing to wait. Generally speaking, he was patient when it came to his assets.

He threw open the door of the tavern, several eyes looking in his direction, and he went and sat down at a table, one of the women quickly at his side to take his order. Just as the woman sped away to get what he requested, Andre tentatively approached the table and sat down. "Sir?"

Chauvelin sighed and poured himself a glass of wine as the woman brought it. "What is it, Andre?"

"Sir, if I may ask, the traitor-"

"You may not ask." He slowly sipped at his wine, eyes running over the occupants of the establishment and stopped suddenly on a woman that was all too familiar, and he smiled wickedly. There she sat with his personal aides, brazenly flirting with them, and he couldn't help but lean back and chuckle softly. Amused, he indicated in that direction. "You see that woman over there, Andre?"

Andre quickly looked up, followed where his boss was pointing, blushed and turned away. "Sir, I would imagine that it is rude to point and stare at strangers..."

"For one moment, drop your inhibitions. Look." He waited for the boy to turn back around and look at what he was so amusedly staring at before he softly said, "What do you see?"

"Sir, it appears to be a woman entertaining Citizens Mercier and Coupeau."

"Good work, Madeline. Look closer."

Andre squinted and did as he was told, and after a moment turned back around and looked at the bemused expression of the agent. "Sir, I may be wrong, but I think she looks a bit familiar to me."

Chauvelin leaned in close to the boy and smoothly whispered, "If I told you that the woman soliciting herself to my soldiers is none other than mademoiselle Marguerite St. Just, would you believe me?" He grinned as the boy gasped and quickly turned around again to look at the woman. "Not a very clever disguise, is it, Madeline?"

"She could have fooled me, sir."

"Yes, and that is why I am the agent, and you are just my secretary." He leaned back, patiently watched the woman like prey, and grinned as the two soldiers stood up, briefly muttered something to her, and walked away, leaving a shocked and disappointed woman sitting alone at the table. The two men walked by the table where the agent sat and he quickly reached out and grabbed one of their arms. "Coupeau, what were you and the pretty mademoiselle talking about?"

Coupeau blinked quickly and sat down as he recognized who was talking to him. "She…she was asking about the St. Just prisoner," he slurred slightly. The man had obviously been drinking.

"And how did she come to know of him, Coupeau," Chauvelin whispered dangerously, causing the man to tremble and sober up very quickly.

"I…we let it slip, Citizen…and-"

"And what did you tell her?"

"Citizen…we, that is to say…we told her that he had been imprisoned here, but is has been relocated and we know not where."

Chauvelin smiled, leaned back. Soldiers were impossible. "And had I not taken him from here, you would have shown her where he was, wouldn't you?" Leaning in closer to the man, he hissed, "And what did she promise you in exchange for such a favour, hmm?"

"Chauvelin, she…she offered to pleasure us both…and I…"

"Oh, did she now?" the agent purred, eyes narrowing cunningly as he looked in the woman's direction. Standing up, he placed his hand on the soldier's shoulder. "I did not know that you took and interest in women, Coupeau."

"I…Sir, I don't, but she…" He trailed off as the agent had already left, swaggering confidently to the table where the woman sat, staring intently at the table.

Smirking as the woman took no notice to him, he gently ran his hand over her shoulder, causing her to jump and he quickly clamped down, and purred in her ear, "What was it I heard about pleasuring the one who told you Armand St. Just's location, Marguerite?"

She quickly turned around, jumped out of her seat and looked defiantly into his eyes as she slowly backed away, which only made the agent chuckle in amusement as he sat in the chair she previously occupied. "So help me God, Chauvelin, if you touch me again…"

"Tsk tsk, Marguerite, such bad manners," the man chided. He motioned to the chair opposite him. "Have a seat, mademoiselle? No need to make a scene, unless, of course, that was your intent, I shall be happy to assist you, but I somehow doubt that is what you want, especially since your cooperation is essential to your brother's wellbeing."

Marguerite's eyes widened in fear, and she slowly took the seat across from him. "Is Armand alright? Is he hurt?"

He smiled, reached over and gently took the wig she was wearing and dropped it to the ground, his hand for a moment lingering on her own golden hair. "Is that not better?" Smirking slightly at her stone face, he leaned over the table and whispered in her ear, "Who were you trying to fool, Marguerite? Me? You were foolish to think you could. I know you, inside and out."

"Where is my brother, Chauvelin?" she asked quietly, tears choking her voice.

The agent leaned back in his chair with a bemused look on his face, lightly tapping his fingers upon the table. "At this very moment," he said slowly, enjoying the power that every word he spoke had upon the woman, "at this moment, your dear brother, I am afraid, is in critical condition." He grinned smugly as the woman paled, her eyes widened in fear, and a few tears fell from her large blue eyes. "Of course, I could not let the most loved of such a good friend perish, so I had mercy on the boy and he is being treated. However…"

"Chauvelin, stop!" Marguerite cried, tears falling rapidly from her eyes. "Chauvelin, he's my brother, please, do not do this to me!"

The Terrorist placed his elbows on the table, looked at the woman over his hands and smiled cruelly. "However, Armand St. Just's current situation can quickly be changed, for better or for worse, and I will allow you to make that choice, my Marguerite."

Marguerite put her face in her hands and wept. If there was any previous confusion as to the feelings she had for the man before her, it was quickly cleared and replaced with an utter loathing for the manipulative snake. "Please, Chauvelin, I will do anything! Just release him!"

Chauvelin slowly shook his head. "Oh no, Marguerite, I played by your rules in England, but we are now in my domain. I set the conditions, not you, my love." Noticing the woman looking at him intently through the tears, he smirked and continued. "Here is what I propose, Margot. You can either accept what I have to offer you and your brother will be allowed to live, or you can deny me and I shall march right to where I placed him and I shall kill him without a second thought. It will not be difficult, as he is too broken to move."

"Is it me you want, Chauvelin?" Marguerite cried, quickly standing and coming to stand next to the dark, amused man. "You can have me so long as you save Armand, but just know I hate you, and I will wish I were dead every second I am with you." She saw the amused smirk grow even wider, and seeing that she had hit upon his thought, she cupped his face and pressed her lips to his.

Chauvelin was just a touch shocked, but he was determined to remain impassive, to not allow any of his passions to give her the upper hand. He had the control, and something so trivial as love for this woman would not stand in the way of what he truly wanted. But still, if she was offering…

His hand snaked around her waist and he pulled her on to his lap, deepening the kiss, but going just so far as to maintain control. When he felt passion begin to overtake him, he mustered up the will to slowly pull away and looked coldly into those eyes so filled with hopelessness and hatred. Smiling smugly, he whispered close to her ear, "I appreciate the offer, Marguerite, but I must decline."

Marguerite pulled away, shocked and feeling used and defiled by the smug, confident man, and she hated him all the more. Eyes narrowing in rage, her hand quickly recoiled from his face and connected a second later, her hand stinging from the impact, and only then she realized her mistake. The pale yellow eyes suddenly became colder and his entire disposition turned to ice, and Marguerite suddenly shook with fear. The man's hand clenched painfully to her side, and she gasped, her face betraying that she was hurting and frightened. "Chauvelin…let me go…you're hurting me…"

The agent sneered and tightened his grip, getting some slight pleasure form the woman's cry of pain. Leaning close to her ear, he hissed, "I believe, mademoiselle, that you have just cost your brother his life." He savagely released her and pushed her off his lap, quickly stood and strode quickly to the door.

With a heartfelt cry, Marguerite chased after the man and clung to his jacket as she dropped to her knees before him, weeping without any control and sobs wrenching her whole body. "Chauvelin, please! Let me reconsider, I beseech you! Tell me what you want, I will do it without question!"

Chauvelin gazed down with disdain at the once proud Marguerite, now weeping and helpless at his feet. "Are you willing to cooperate this time, Madame St. Just?" The woman slowly nodded, and he grabbed her by the arm, pulled her off the ground, and took her to their table. Motioning for her to sit, she did so without question, and he sat across from her, hands folded neatly on the table. "Marguerite, you wish to save your brother?"

"Do you have to ask this, Chauvelin?"

"Then here is what I want from you." He paused, made perfectly sure that he had her full attention before coldly stating, "I want you under guard in the Temple."

Her eyes shot open and she looked in disbelief at the deadly serious golden eyes of the agent. "You are arresting me? Chauvelin, what have I done to deserve this?"

"An unfortunate association with Armand St. Just, I'm afraid. And you do make such lovely bait."

"Bait?" Marguerite's heart stopped for a moment. "You are trying to lure the Scarlet Pimpernel here using me?"

Chauvelin smirked. "Clever girl. Imagine what will happen in England when they discover that the trophy wife of their most loved fop is imprisoned in France. The Pimpernel is sure to rescue you."

Despite the situation, Marguerite laughed, which made the agent smile sarcastically. "And if I do as you say, Armand will live?"

"Your brother will have his life, and he shall be free to go as he so wishes."

"Chauvelin, you have become a fool! I shall do as you say, my brother will be free, and the Pimpernel will rescue me, I have no doubt!"

The agent leaned in closer and grinned wickedly. "And there is where your cleverness escapes you." Marguerite looked at him blankly for a moment and he revelled in the silence and anticipation for a moment before smoothly whispering, "Do as I say, and your brother shall have his life, yes, but I shall have you both here with no chance of escape. If, Madame, you agree to be held under watch, then at any time from here on out if I find either you or your brother missing, I shall kill one innocent woman or child every half hour you are gone from my vigil."

She stared in horror at the man, gaped slightly and shook as she tried to repress the quickly returning tears. "You wouldn't…"

"Do you doubt me, Marguerite? As soon as I have your agreement for your brother's life, I shall give word to my soldiers to tell all of Paris of our little deal. Now, let me ask you. If the Pimpernel were to come save you, would you go, knowing that innocent people will die the longer that you are gone?"

"You're a monster."

"Don't flatter me. Are we agreed? Your brother's life is in your hands."

Marguerite stared blankly at his hand, extended ever so gracefully out to her so that she may seal the life of her brother, and tears once again fell from her eyes. She did not want to help catch the hero, and Chauvelin had ensured that she would not leave. She was helpless, and all she could do was reach out and gently take his hand, accepting that Armand would be safe, and she would not escape, not even if the Pimpernel came. What more could she do? She did not know this hero, and her brother was oh so important to her…

Chauvelin smiled wickedly and motioned for his guards, explained the situation, and they ran off to deliver the news of the plausible deaths of the innocents were the St. Just siblings to escape the watch of the Republic. A look of triumph on his face, Chauvelin offered his hand to the desolate woman. "Come, love. Let me take you to your quarters." Without delay, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her away, the agent glowering at his new edge and definitive means of keeping Armand St. Just in his service.


End file.
